


Nylon Stockings

by StarsBurst



Series: Servants to Greatness [1]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Food Service, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Mob, F/M, Food, Ivar in a wheelchair, Multi, Non-Consensual Spanking, Spanking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-11-10 19:06:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11132898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsBurst/pseuds/StarsBurst
Summary: The sons of Ragnar Lothbrok run the mob during the Prohibition. They sell weapons, illegal substances (drugs, pills, alcohol), loose women... They are the kings among kings.Which absolutely means a sharp-tongued, dirt poor cook is bound to throw the renowned Ivar the Boneless for a loop.(There will eventually be smut. More tags will be added as they arise.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Everyone loves a good 1920's fic, filled with bourgeois sugar-daddy-esque mobsters and poor sassy females, right? 
> 
> I'm going to try and keep this as historically accurate as possible, while also referencing the original material and keeping the character "in character" as much as possible (given that it's an AU). The Reader insert character does have a name, but I will avoid referencing it when possible and will use pet names instead, since my "Babydoll" readers know how much I hate "(Y/N)" in fics.

“Hey, Danno, are you sure this order is right?” You asked.

The young waiter (whose name was actually Danny, but you liked to tease him) nodded. His eyes were as large as saucers, and his voice was purposefully lower than normal when he spoke. “Her coat looks like it's worth as much as my rent, and I recognize her husband from the bank. Just – please make whatever they asked for.”

It had been a slow morning at Odin's, and that was saying something. The food you served was good – you knew that without a doubt – but the location of the store was what drove customers away. If phrased as delicately as possible, this neighborhood was a shit-hole. Windows were constantly smashed. Most of the buildings were in ruin. The roads were difficult to walk on; no cars ever drove by, for fear of ruining tires or being stolen.

This was your third order of the day, and it was surprisingly long. Three Coke-Colas. A BLT, extra bacon and extra mustard, with lightly breaded toast. A Caesar salad, extra dressing. An order of french fries, with dipping ranch. A slice of chocolate cake, with a side of pickles. Two hot dogs with relish, sauerkraut, and mayonnaise. Fruit salad and gravy (“mixed together”, it read on the slip of paper).

You had received odd orders at work previously: that was just something that occurred on a regular basis. People tried to make their own lemonade at the table with the sugar packets and a slice of lemon, rather than spending the additional 25 cents. French fries were dipped in pepper, mustard, mayonnaise, horse radish, Worcestershire sauce... One of the few regulars you had liked to order the cheesecake with great globs of mayonnaise on top of it.

So you were trying not to judge, but, honestly? What the fuck.

You took a quick peek through the open order-counter between the kitchen and the rest of the restaurant. It was empty, except for one of the booths in the corner. There was a very well-dressed man – suit, tie, leather shoes – with long, fluffy blonde hair. The woman he was with was extremely pretty, wearing none of the bright make-up you'd become accustomed to seeing, but a large fur coat and black shoes that were shiny and new. Her own blonde hair was curly and cut short, and her hands were softly rubbing her stomach -

Oh _God bless_ that poor woman: her stomach looked ready to pop. You were not about to stand in this dumpy little diner kitchen and judge a pregnant woman for her baby's cravings. To be honest, you were quite glad she was giving into those cravings. Your mother had been given terrible advice from her own doctor when she was pregnant with you: to eat even less, to avoid getting a bump, and you knew other girls who were given the same advice nowadays.

“I'll get right on this,” you said, and you grabbed Danno's arm before he could run off too far. “Danno, make sure and ask her if she'd like everything all at once, or as I finish each dish. I don't want her being hungry. And tell her I say congratulations.”

“Can do, Ponytail,” Danno winked, and you rolled your eyes as you got to work. For as much as he flirted with single female customers, and as much as he liked poking fun at you (especially over the large ponytail you kept), he was a good waiter, and he helped keep the illusion of a man running the shop. You knew most restaurants wouldn't want a girl as their only cook, despite the magazines claiming women only ought to cook and birth babies, but after you found yourself on your own three years ago, you'd marched into Odin's and demanded to speak with the owner.

“ _The paper says you're looking for a cook,”_ you'd said with more courage than you'd felt, staring at the owner, who possessed only one eye and a somber countenance. _“I'd like to apply.”_

He had crossed his arms and said, _“Little lady, are you sure you're up for cooking for many people?”_

“ _If I wasn't, I wouldn't be here,”_ you said. You had also desperately needed the money, 35 cents an hour, but you weren't going to tell him that. Luckily for you, you'd brought along a small box of pastries, all of which you'd made yourself, in hopes of swaying the job into your favor.

Old man Odin had rolled his eyes at the sight, but he'd given one of your cupcakes a bite, then admitted, _“Shit, kid, if you can make anything else this good, I'll give you 45 cents an hour.”_

The job had been yours ever since; he'd even given you a raise after working there for two years. The desserts had been the biggest hits of everything else, and you enjoyed your work.

**~ * ~**

“Hlíf, get in here!”

 _If that couple dined and dashed, I might just murder someone,_ you thought to yourself when you ran out of the kitchen at Danno's calling.

Their bill had come out to $1.65, since the woman had ordered two more slices of cake and another Coke-Cola to go, after eating nearly everything else. (Her husband had eaten only the salad and taken a few of her fries, which you found immensely amusing.) They'd been very appreciative of all the food, and your own congratulations, before Danno informed you that they were expecting twins in about three months. You had heard them politely debating baby names over lunch (they seemed to be leaning towards girls), and you'd caught their names as well: the man, Sigurd, and his wife, Gróa.

Instead of dining and dashing, there was the exact $1.65 on the table, along with a ten dollar bill. In Danno's hand, there was a five.

“They gave me this,” he said, “and they said the ten was yours. They said they'll try and come back soon.”

You made 55 cents an hour, working five days a week and nine hours each day, if you worked all of your hours (which, often times, Odin would come in halfway through and tell you to go home for the remainder of the day). That tip alone was more than what you made in wages for two full days of work.

You couldn't help but break down into tears.

**~ * ~**

“We should take Hvitserk there,” Gróa teased later on, as she and Sigurd walked back towards his bank, hand in hand. It was their ritual: Sigurd, working at the bank on 7th and Cherry Avenue during the day, and working on the books and numbers for the Lothbrok estate in the evenings and on weekends. His lunch hours were spent with Gróa, especially after she'd started her pregnancy cravings, and his evenings making sure she kept safe. “I think he would enjoy it. Their cake was lovely.”

“I would not know,” he teased, giving her cheek a kiss, “You would not share with me.”

“Because you are allergic to pickles.”

“And our children are making you eat pickles.”

“Hopefully, they shall stop soon.” She let out a weak breath when she felt a kick to her stomach, and Sigurd gave her hand a tender squeeze.

“Are you alright, love?”

Gróa nodded. “Yes. They are just very energetic. They cannot come soon enough.”

Sigurd let out a small hum, then added, “You honestly think we ought to bring Hvitserk?”

Gróa nodded. “Ivar too, I suppose. It might just put a smile on his face.”

“The cake was that good?”

She giggled and nodded. “Yes, it was! Besides, there were no steps, so he could wheel himself inside.” More than once, the Lothbrok brood had to avoid an eatery because Ivar was incapable of getting his wheelchair inside, or they would treat the youngest son of Ragnar poorly because of the crutches.

“I will ask them about it tonight,” Sigurd promised, and he smiled at the satisfied cheek kiss he received.

“Thank you, husband,” she said, then tacked on, “Because if you forget, I will tie a braid in your hair, then cut it off.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot of food mentions in this because I always write when I'm hungry. Sorry y'all. (Shit's gonna hit the fan in the next chapter!)

“Did I ever tell you how I met my husband?”

Over the course of the following seven weeks, Gróa quickly became your favorite and most frequently regular at Odin's. She arrived three or four times a week, usually by herself, staying for an hour or two or three, chatting happily with you (and Danno, when he wasn't handling other customers).

Sigurd would join in often enough. If he didn't come with her during his lunch hour (once a week or so), he would arrive around 5:15 to pick her up. He'd ask for a shrimp po' boy to go, with extra lettuce and no mayonnaise, before always paying whatever tab Gróa had accumulated. One afternoon, Gróa had been at Odin's for nearly four hours, and her bill came to $3.19.

“ _I should just pay a babysitter for you,”_ Sigurd teased, giving his wife's cheek a kiss and paying the bill, along with tipping you five dollars. After the initial ten, your tips from the couple had gotten more modest – five dollars or so, each time Gróa came in – but that was still quite extravagant by your standards. You always made sure to thank them, but you also didn't want them to believe you were only befriending them for the tips either.

“ _Neither of you have to tip me, you know,”_ you said one afternoon. Danno had been sent home early, and you were manning the grill and waitress duty by yourself. _“Your company is enough. You see how empty this place is; it's nice just having you around.”_

The heavily pregnant woman only waved it off. _“Your food is as good as some of the high-class places Sigurd takes me to for his bank luncheons. Better even, since you don't give me smug looks for ordering what my babies want me to eat.”_

“ _That mean you want more fried onions and sauerkraut?”_

“ _Yes, please.” _

“No, I'm afraid you haven't,” you admitted, refilling her glass of lemonade for the third time. As usual, the restaurant was empty, clean and swept as much as you could do so without closing entirely, and Gróa was in her typical spot by the bar counter, her mink coat daintily placed beside her on the counter top.

She was always so dolled up, something you were initially envious about: wrapped in a fur coat, store-bought dresses, and not a hair out of place. Not once had she worn the same outfit, which in itself was amazing, given how large her stomach continued to grow, but she did seem to rotate between one of four different coats and ten pairs of flat shoes.

“ _I miss my heels,”_ she pouted one afternoon during the third week, nibbling on her third slice of apple pie with maple syrup and chocolate chips. _“They hurt my feet so much now, but they were pretty. I think Sigurd had to pay Margrethe to hide them from me so I would stop wearing them!”_

But the envy over her wardrobe had quickly melted into fondness. She had never acted haughty or arrogant towards you, and any sort of off-the-cuff remark she made about money, she always quickly apologized for, even when it hadn't been remotely offensive. You knew that she could see how threadbare your own clothes were, and she had once asked what your dress size was, but you knew better than to answer. She was sweet and generous, and her stories were entertaining. And she had happily squealed over the new pair of sturdy, white saddle shoes you'd splurged on: four dollars, all thanks to their tipping.

“I got a teller job at the bank when I was eighteen,” she told you. Your face must have betrayed how shocked you were, because she collapsed into giggles. “You look so shocked!”

“I-I, I'm just...” You stuttered, before you shrugged. “I'm sorry, I just...”

Because there was honestly no nice way of saying, _You come in wearing such fancy clothing and paying for large amounts of food. You don't look like you've ever had to work a day in your life._

“It's okay,” Gróa thankfully said, and expression clearly stated that it was. She genuinely wasn't insulted. “I understand completely. It's all because of Sigurd, you know. Before him, I lived with my parents and four sisters. It was a nightmare! I wanted my own independence, and I _begged_ and _begged_ my father to let me get a job while living at home, and he said I could, but only if I graduated high school first.”

“Was Sigurd the guy who hired you or something?” you asked.

She shook her head. “No. He just worked there: upper management. I didn't even meet him 'til the fifth month on the job. Someone tried robbing the place, and I was behind the counter, real hysterical, and he ran off with over a hundred fifty dollars.”

Gróa had you on the edge of your toes for the remainder of the story. They eventually caught the bank robber, but not after she was fired from her job, re-hired at a different bank, then started dating Sigurd. He'd apparently put in a good word for her at her second job, and she had kept her job until they were engaged.

“He said he didn't want his girl working if she didn't need to,” Gróa said with a roll of her eyes. “I don't mind not going back every week-day, but it did give me something to do.”

“I'd offer you a spot here,” you teased, “but I think old Odin would scalp me for it.”

Gróa giggled as you heard the door open, and there was Sigurd, right on time, but he now had an entourage. Three men, of differing sizes and heights, all dressed as well as the banker was. Pin-stripped suits, shiny leather shoes, all of which screamed wealth. Only one of them had wedding band, you noticed: the tallest man, with his hair pulled back tightly in a long braid. He had a kind-looking face, and the young, blonde willowy woman tucked against his arm was likely his wife, if her own ring gave any indication. Her hair was tied in a decorative braided bun, and her dress was far more subdued than Gróa's, but you still recognized its design from the Macy's window-front.

The next man you noted was probably the most dour-looking man you'd ever seen come into the restaurant. (And that meant a lot, since Odin was rather dour himself, and the old man was missing an eye.) He had a large wheelchair, a great contraption made of steel and wood that appeared dreadfully uncomfortable, and you could see a great deal of muscle in his arms, even from underneath the suit coat. His dark hair was slicked back, and his bright blue eyes almost made his face rather handsome, if his expression weren't so severe.

The last man who entered, thankfully, made sure to close the front door behind him. He had a rather boyish face, despite the peach fuzz growing on his lip, and his long blonde hair was, to your surprise, pulled back in a low ponytail. As Gróa eased herself off the bar stool to greet her husband, and the rest of the group moved over to largest table in the restaurant, he was the only one to react to your presence. He gave you a rather devilish wink as you waited for them to settle before passing out menus to everyone.

Of the many stories Gróa had told you about her new family, you knew their names well enough, but it was now nice to be able to put faces to those names.

“Will all of this be running on the same tab, or separately...?” you ask, grabbing your notebook and a pen from your apron.

“Sigurd will pay,” one of the men – Hvitserk, if you were correct – teased. “He invited us, after all.”

Most of the group laughed at that, except for Sigurd (who rolled his eyes) and the man in the wheelchair, Ivar (who kept glaring at the menu). They playfully bickered over it, before they settled with the bachelor's – Hvitserk and Ivar – paying their own way, and the couples for themselves.

Gróa already had gotten about $1.17 of food already, but you weren't surprised when she ordered a slice of blueberry pie with vanilla ice cream. She had seen you making it about an hour earlier, and you could tell it had been on her mind.

“Would you like your usual, Mr. Lothbrok?” you asked Sigurd.

“I haven't been here enough to have a 'usual',” Hvitserk teased.

“Nor have I,” the man with the large braid – Ubbe – tacked on.

“Yes,” Sigurd interrupted, before his brothers could act any more obnoxious. “I'll also get French fries and a Coke.”

Ubbe's order had been easily enough to write, though Margrethe's small voice had been a little difficult for you to understand. Two shrimp po' boys, extra fried shrimp and extra mayonnaise, with a side of the pasta salad for him; an egg salad sandwich and fries for her, and two Coke-Colas. It was a little amusing listening to Ubbe try and haggle his wife into eating more food; he seemed concerned about her waif-like frame, but he didn't push too much.

Hvitserk, once he actually paid attention to the menu rather than looking at you, seemed to drool over everything. “What do you make best?” he asked.

“Everything,” Gróa answered sincerely.

“You're pregnant,” he rebutted. “Everything tastes good to you.”

“And you eat like you're pregnant.”

“I want the BLT,” Ivar suddenly interrupted, his voice as cold as his demeanor. “I want the bacon extra crispy. I want the salad with that, and I want a cup of coffee, black.”

“Bread toasted or no?” you asked.

“Toasted.”

“And what kind of dressing would you like?”

“None.”

… _Okay,_ you thought to yourself, writing that down. You hoped he was only having a bad day, instead of constantly being this much of a pill, but the face he was making – which clearly said that he thought you were incompetent – spoke volumes.

At least Hvitserk's order almost made you giggle. Gróa was right: his appetite rivaled her own. A grilled chicken sandwich, extra mayo with a toasted bun. A shrimp po' boy sandwich, extra “everything”. A cup of chicken salad, fruit salad, and onion rings.

“And a cup of the soup of the day.”

“Soup's out,” you apologized. “Danno makes that, and he doesn't work on Fridays.”

“Then that'll be everything.”

You collected the menus carefully. “It'll be about twenty minutes for everything,” you said.

“Take your time,” Ubbe said with a smirk. “We're in no rush.”

**~ * ~**

If it gave any sort of credit to your cooking, all of the hushed murmuring – and the occasional laughs – ceased once everyone started shoveling your food into their mouths. (Although part of that might be contributed to by the 20 minute wait.) Even the man in the wheelchair looked _slightly_ less grumpy once the BLT was in front of him. You kept faint eye on them – refilling their drinks when it got low, taking away plates when they were empty – but mostly, they were too immersed in their own conversations so you left them be.

You were quit proud that none of the plates had left over food; you never liked wasting foods, or seeing customers do that. Even Hvitserk had surprised you by finishing everything, including the second po' boy he had ordered in the middle of the meal. By the time Ubbe politely asked for the check, there was only about a half-hour of the workday left – which was nice, since that meant you could close (since the likelihood of more customers arriving was slim).

As expected, Sigurd's total was the most expensive at $1.31, which was fairly regular between him and Groa. Ubbe's was 65 cents, an average amount for a couple, and Ivar's only rang at 35 cents because he'd gotten four refills of coffee. Hvitserk's rounded to 98 cents, because of how much food he'd gotten, but thankfully, not one of the men batted an eye at how much their checks were. You had customers who would nickel and dime you, so it was refreshing that the Lothbrok brood wasn't so obnoxious.

“Just let me know if you need anything else,” you told them, before busying yourself to avoid making them uncomfortable. You cleaned the counter-top. You swept the tiny kitchen and cleaned the grill. You were in the middle of restocking the back refrigerator when you heard a _Ding!_

That little cursed silver bell – with it's own sign projecting “Ring for service!” - was something you normally hated, but right now, it was vaguely useful. You came out from the kitchen, and there stood Ubbe by the counter, along with Margrethe and Ivar.

“Thank you,” Ubbe said, with a smile on his face. Margrethe was smiling as well, but hers was far more shy. “I don't think I've had food that good before.”

“It wasn't bad,” Ivar interjected, and Ubbe gave his brother a glare and opened his mouth when Margrethe interrupted, her eyes not moving from you.

“Were those your recipes, or do they belong to the restaurant?”

“They're mine. I, I actually got the job by proving to Odin that I was a better cook than Danno.”

“We want you to come work for us,” Ivar stated curtly. He was leveling you with an expression that was so cold, it was startling. He sounded as if he were demanding you work for him, rather than asking. Something about that pissed you off.

“What, why?”

“Are you stupid? We just said we liked your cooking. Hvitserk would not shut his mouth about it, even when he was inhaling everything.”

“Your brothers like my cooking,” you defended. You were surprised by your sudden boldness. You normally didn't back-sass customers; that's why you'd kept your job for so long. “You just belittle me and demand more coffee.”

“I never said the food tasted like pigshit, did I?” Ivar said, the beginning of a smirk crawling across his face. “No? Then it was fine. Work for us.”

“No.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Margrethe cuddling closer into Ubbe's side. You got a sinking feeling in your stomach that, despite his handicap, people rarely told Ivar no. Or perhaps it was because of it? No, it was certainly him as a person.

“Why not?”

“Because I like my job.”

To your surprise, Ivar let out a loud laugh. “You like this little dump? This place where the windows had cracks? That there are no Model T's on the road? You like having a job that pays so little?”

“Ivar!” Ubbe snapped.

“I'm paid well, thank you,” you countered, and Ivar's eyes scanned you up and down. Not in any sort of sensual fashion: you could tell that he was clearly casting judgment upon the threadbare (and obviously handmade) dress you had on. There was no shame in handmade clothes – you knew that; many of the girls in your apartment building made their own clothing. But that didn't get rid of the disapproving look on his face.

“ _Sure_ ,” he said, the all-knowing-smirk unwavering.

“And I have no desire to work for a _cad_ ,” you snapped.

He laughed at that too, before he started for the door. “You don't seem to understand, doll. This cad always gets what he wants.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

The next week, business was as usual. Gróa did not return, which was disappointing, and Odin came in around three o'clock on Friday to let you leave early, because it had been so slow. You hadn't minded: the Lothbroks' had left you an overall tip of $3.21 that past week, after leaving a sold $6.50 to cover all of their bills. It was a kind gesture, but you also hoped that _some_ of them did not come back, rude as that thought was.

By the time Monday rolled around, you were still rather miffed about how presumptuous Ivar Lothbrok had acted, as if he owned the entire world and that you ought to obey him at the drop of the hat. What kind of person acted that way? _A rude, spoiled person,_ you thought, _wheelchair or not._

You immediately abandoned this train of thought when you entered the shop, however. There stood Odin and Danno, looking grim, and your boss minced no words. “Kid, I'm letting you go.”

“What? Why?”

He scratched the back of his neck. “There's not enough money left in my budget to cover two workers. And Danno was here first, y'know? I held onto you for as long as I could.”

This was not happened. This couldn't be happening at all. But you had said, “Alright,” he had given you your last paycheck, and you went to the bank to deposit it. Then you went home to your tiny apartment and cried for several hours straight.

Fired. You had been fired. Part of you couldn't blame Odin: Danno, though not the best cook, was extremely loyal and a good worker. Another part of you wanted to curse Odin to the high heavens. You had been loyal too. You had worked hard. Now, you were without a job.

You allowed yourself a few hours to throw yourself a pity party, before you grew tired of it and started to take action. You took hold of the statement you'd gotten from the bank, made a list of all of your bills, and tried to create some sort of a plan for the future. Over the past two months, your wages had been about $180 dollars, and the Lothbroks alone had provided an additional $75 or so. Your bank account was as full as it had ever been, at $262.93 and you knew they were the cause.

For your apartment, the monthly rent was $25, including electricity and water. Groceries were around $7 a week, but you could potentially shrink it down to half, if push came to shove. It would just mean eating less, or an extremely boring diet. Any sort of “fun” activity – seeing the silent pictures, visiting the Macy's on second street – was out. If you stretched every dollar, and cut down on food, you could survive for about seven months without a job.

You didn't want to go seven months without any sort of a job, but you needed to think realistically as well. People didn't like hiring female cooks, unless held at knife-point. You had never touched a typewriter, so being a receptionist was out. (And any man who hired a “no typing receptionist” was either an idiot or seeking _something_ _else_.) But if Odin wanted you to move on, then you would.

**~ * ~**

The first month of job hunting was fruitless.

You spent a two hours each day hunting through the job ads of three separate newspapers. The listings for women were minimal, but there were many for young men, and you often circled these as well. You thought if you showed up in person, absolutely qualified and determined as hell, you would get the job. Unfortunately, you were always wrong. If they didn't laugh in your face, they just told you to try somewhere else.

One man even had the balls enough to say, “If you like cooking so much, sweetheart, why don't you just go back home and cook for your husband?”

You hadn't hit him, but by God, you had wanted to.

It wasn't until halfway through the second month when you considered shelling out $23 for a course in typewriting at the nearby technical college. It would eat into your budget, without a doubt, but it would give you experience that you needed. It would be for a month, two days a week for two hours, and it claimed you would be highly proficient in typing by the end.

Then, of course, you realized you would also need to pay for your own typewrite to take the course, and _that_ kind of expense was not one you could justify. You just kept hunting for jobs. You had already lost nearly ten pounds by eating less, which wasn't something you were overly proud of, even if the girls on your hall complimented you for it.

One thing you _were_ proud of, however, was selling your hair. You'd told yourself for years: _If I ever need the money, I'll sell my hair and put it in the bank._ Now you definitely could use any penny you could get. One trip to the salon later, you were now lacking nine inches, but you also had an additional $15.68 in your bank account. Thankfully, the woman who cut your hair styled it into a nice little curly bob, which actually looked quite nice on you, and you were pleased with the outcome.

In the last week of the second month, when the landlord made her usual rounds with everyone's mail, there was a large manila envelope for you. It was rare for you to get mail – mostly advertisers wanting magazine subscriptions or just plain junk – but the envelope had no return address. You opened it, and – to your utter surprise – it was a contract. A _job_ contract. It was typed, on both sides, for at least eight pages, with an exceptional legal appearance. Not a single word was misspelled, nor fixed with white ink stain, so it would have taken a great deal of time and care to type out.

Then you quickly realized who it was from. Ivar Lothbrok.

You focused with all of your might to push down the sudden rush of anger you felt, and you forced yourself to read it. To your utter surprise (given how presumptuous he had acted in Odin's), the contract itself was as highly professional and detailed as its general appearance. It very clearly stated what was expected of you.

Your job was to act as the personal cook for the sons of Ragnar Lothbrok and their immediate families. “This means Björn Lothbrok, Ubbe Lothbrok, Hvitserk Lothbrok, Sigurd Lothbrok, Ivar Lothbrok, and the spouses and children of the aforementioned.” (The wives' names and the kids names were written directly after, and you were pleased to see the names of twin girls written directly after Gróa. She must have had her children after you left Odin's.) Technically, Ivar would be your boss, since he would be the one signing your paychecks, but you were to listen to all of the boys.

You were to work at least six days of the week, and you could have either Sunday or Saturday off, for religious purposes. Because you would be cooking for several people, all of whom had different schedules, your hours would be referred to as “open availability”. You would, essentially, be at their beck and call – in terms of food. It specified “regular” hours (7am to 7pm), “evening” hours (7pm to midnight), and “additional” hours (midnight to 6am).

You would be paid $1 per regular hour, which were mandatory for each of your six days. (You were allotted two breaks for your own meals, at times based on each day's convenience.) Evening hours were $1.25, and additional hours were $1.75; this would only be paid if you worked during these times. If you worked the seventh day instead of taking off, the regular hours on that day would be $1.50, evening hours $2, and additional hours $3. It also stipulated that you would never work a full 24 hours in one sitting (and if any of the brothers attempted to break this, you were to bring it to Ivar's attention).

If anybody else who worked for “Lothbrok and Co.” (which was the company name) asked you to make them something, it was allowed, but they were to pay you first: $1 for whatever you made, regardless of how short or long of a time it took you. The contract claimed they would be made aware of this.

In exchange for your services, along with the wage, you would be given housing on the Lothbrok estate. It would be a private bedroom in the Lothbrok household, along with your own bathroom. The kitchen would be fully stocked with whatever you needed, and you were allowed to make your own menu, based upon what recipes you knew and created.

Your first day would be the first of next month. You would move in the night before. The contract would last a full year, and it would be renewable, if you proved to do a good job.

If you agreed to it. On one hand, this was pretty much a dream-job come true. On the other hand... you would be working for Ivar Lothbrok.

Would you be able to handle that?

**~ * ~**

“Mr. Lothbrok, this came for you.”

Ivar barely looked up from his desk when one of his cronies entered with the mail, including a large manila envelope that he distinctively remembered mailing himself. “Just set it here,” he said, tapping his desk, and he eyed the man down until they scuttled fearfully out of Ivar's office.

Once the door shut, Hvitserk – lying on the large sofa in the corner – couldn't help but snicker. “Scare him much, brother?”

Ivar chose not to answer as he opened the folder and gave Hvitserk a look. “I told you. The girls at the whorehouses are under Björn's jurisdiction. If Rollo is sending them into the streets during off-hours, take it up with someone who cares. Or just shoot him.”

“Björn or Rollo?” Hvitserk teased.

“I don't care,” Ivar muttered, finally weaseling the thick contract out of the envelope. None of the pages were damaged, and on the final one, there had been a place for the young woman to sign her name, which would bind her legally to the contract. However, instead of her name, there were three very distinct words, written in thick black ink.

**GO FUCK YOURSELF**

Ivar suddenly threw the contract at Hvitserk and started to wheel himself towards the door. At the sound of his brother's laughter, the man called “Boneless” felt his anger swell. Nobody – not even some poor little doll who could cook – told him no. Nobody.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I nerd out about historical things in the notes in my other fics. Would y'all like that here too?


	4. Chapter 4

It had been nearly a week since you'd sent the 'signed' contract to the proper address (it had been written on the final page), and you had heard nothing back, so you assumed the Lothbrok family had moved on. Part of you felt a little bitter about it – mostly because you would miss seeing Gróa – but the greater part of you felt content with your choices, crude as they had been. The three cent postage had been worth it.

However, all of those feeling ceased when you returned home one afternoon around three, and Molly – one of the nicest girls on your hall – poked her head out her door.

“Oh, hey, I didn't know your brother was coming to visit!”

You didn't have a brother. You had _no_ siblings. What the hell.

“Uhhhh,” was all you could think of saying, before her innocent prattling plowed over your awkward response. Somehow, your knee-jerk stopping hadn't raised any sort of red flag in her mind.

“You shoulda told me! Mrs. Mathis was giving him _such_ a hard time about getting up the stairs in that wheelchair of his. I'm surprised he kept calm that long. I woulda pitched a fit if I was him.”

Oh sweet Lord no. No, no, no.

“Er, do you know where he is?”

“Oh, yeah! She just let him on into your room. He still oughta be there, I think. Came by about an hour ago or so. Didn't hear him go down the stairs. Oh, is that bad to say?”

 _Molly, I couldn't care less if it is or not,_ you thought to yourself as you bolted down to the end of the hallway, fishing for your apartment keys before realizing the door was unlocked. Shit, shit, and triple shit. When you carefully opened the door, there was Ivar. His body language was surprisingly relaxed, considering how rigid his wheelchair was – and how it barely fit in the one room, between your bed, the desk, and the small kitchen.

Once he finally saw you, his brows furrowed together, and he spoke before you could say anything, “You cut your hair. And you lost weight. I don't like it.”

You kicked the door shut behind you. “What are you doing here?”

“That's no way to treat a guest, doll,” Ivar scolded mildly.

“You're _not_ my guest,” you said. “You're a _pest_ and an intruder. Tell me why you're here, then _scram_.”

Ivar chuckled at that. Your agitation and anger seemed to amuse him to no end, and something about that rubbed you the wrong way. “Alright, doll, I'll play along. I'm here because I wanted to know why you turned a job down when you don't have one right now.”

You were about to snap at him – tell him that he was a cad and a nitwit and a whole slew of names – but you stopped yourself. You hadn't told soul that you'd been fired, or that you were on a job hunt. How would Ivar know?

“How you know I'm unemployed right now?” you asked softly. You didn't want one of the neighbors to hear, because 1) it would be humiliating, and 2) they might rat on your landlord.

His unwavering smirk was an answer enough, and you could feel your blood boiling still, but he answered anyway, in the most falsely innocent tone you'd ever heard in your life. “Odin owed me a couple of favors. He didn't mind having one of them knocked off if it meant firing his cook. You call fifty-five cents an hour well-paid?”

“Most places wouldn't offer me more than thirty,” you said, and you both knew it had nothing to do with your cooking, and everything to do with what was between your legs.

“That's why you should just come to me, doll,” Ivar purred with a small shake of his head. “Before you say something _else_ cheeky, you should know you won't get another job offer anywhere else.”

“Says you,” you snapped.

“Exactly,” he said, and his tone was firm enough that you knew he wasn't lying. The look in his eye confirmed it. He had done _something_ , and that was why nobody was hiring you. You didn't want to think about how he'd managed such a feat. “Not unless you plan on moving out of state.”

“I ought to shove you out of your chair,” you growled.

“Ohh? You don't want to do that, doll.”

“You could hire anyone as your cook. Why me?”

“Why not you?”

“Answer the question, you _swine_.”

“Fine, fine. My brothers like your cooking. My sister-in-law enjoys your company. I don't mind having you around, when you aren't acting so stubborn. And I know I can make your life a living hell until you say yes.”

“You're already succeeding.”

He clucked his tongue at you, a very chiding sound, and his tone changed, more like a father attempting to placate a naughty child, and that irked you even more. “I'm a busy man, doll. Why don't you just sign this new contract I brought? It's the same as the first. I'll be on my way, and I'll have Ubbe or Hvitserk pick you up on the thirtieth. Make it easier for both of us.”

“I can make your life hell too,” you replied, sounding far more confident than you actually felt. “My answer is still no.”

Any sort of teasing mood that remained abruptly vanished, and Ivar grew far more stoic. When his arms went towards the wheels of his chair, you genuinely thought that he would leave, so you moved to open the door. His voice caught you off-guard. “I don't think you'll want your neighbors to see this.”

You don't know how exactly it happened. In hindsight, it was just kind of a big blur. At some point, you remembered biting him – on one of his hands or his wrist, you can't recall – and neither of you yelled at each other, to avoid attracting neighbors, but there had been a great deal of grunting and muttered threats and yelps of pain (from you). In the commotion, Ivar – despite being in a wheelchair (and, by that logic, theoretically, weaker than you) – managed to pin you down against the side of your bed. Your legs were caught underneath his chair, between the wheel and where his leg was placed, and your torso was against the mattress. Both of his hands were pressed against your back, pushing you down, and unless you miraculously managed to turn around and literally flip his heavy wheelchair over, you were stuck.

You had gotten pinned down, against your bed, by a man in a wheelchair.

Did the YMCA offer classes for anything beyond swimming? If they didn't, they needed to have one for self-defense. That, or you needed to gain some muscle mass. Clearly, being in front of an oven and stove had done you no favors.

“Let me up, you stupid -”

A sharp pain on your rear, followed by an abrupt earsplitting clap, silenced you.

“Stop talking,” Ivar stated firmly. “You're going to listen, and if you decide to be cheeky, I'm going to spank you like the naughty, stubborn little girl you are until you _do_. Do you understand me?”

“Let me up!”

Two more hits followed, and this time, the smug jerk actually left his hand on your bottom. Presumptuous cad.

“It's no trouble for me to cancel my afternoon plans. I can do this all day: you're giving me a lovely target.”

“Blow it out your ass!”

Five swats, and you actually yelped at the last two, since they were harder than before.

“See what this defiance is getting you, doll? Are you going to be good now?”

You were going to shove him down the stairs. You didn't care if that meant going to hell, but you were going to shove him down the stairs. Or pick up that stupid chair of his and throw him out the window.

“I want an answer.”

“I'm listening,” you hissed.

“Good. The job I'm offering, you silly brat, is for $12 a day, minimum. That's $72 a week, even if you took the day off. Two eighty a month. You get thirty-five hundred dollars a year for cooking, and if you want to quit at the end, I'll let you, no questions asked.”

You knew the math. You had calculated it when you'd received the initial contract. If you worked strictly regular hours, no evening or additional, and always took one day off a week, you would make $288 in a single month, bare minimum. That was more than what your bank balance currently held. You wouldn't need to worry about rent.

“So, my question stands. Are -” **SMACK** “- you going -” **SMACK** “- to take -” **SMACK** “- the job?”

He followed that up with two more smacks, and a squeeze to your right cheek.

“Are you going to keep hitting me until I do?”

“I'm considering it, yes. Of course, if you keep giving me sass, I'll need to flip up that skirt of yours -”

“Why me?” you whimpered. Most guys you'd seen, if they decided to whack a woman's rump, bestowed playful swats. Ivar's were sharp and hurt a great deal. “Why am I so important?”

“Because -” And he laid down a rapid fire of loud, crisp smacks, too quick for you to count and so painful that it took your breath away. “I don't like it when a obstinate little doll thinks she can humiliate me and get away with it. Especially in front of my brothers.” He laid one last, thunderous smack, and you were already in tears, or else that one would have made you cry. “Now, are you going to be a good girl and do as I tell you?”

With as little dignity and reservation as you could muster in this position, knowing that Ivar had just smacked your bottom until you complied, you nodded your head.

“Good.” Then he gave a sudden pinch to the underside of your left cheek, sharp enough to make you squeal in pain. “I might have to do this again.”

“C-Can't you find someone else to do this to?” you whined, and to your surprise, the hand on your back moved and found its way to your head, stroking your hair with surprising gentleness.

“Awww,” he cooed in a patronizing fashion, “Poor thing. Are you sore? Lucky for you, I like my women fiesty.”

He let you go then, and once his chair was no longer confining your legs, instead of pushing him out the door, you scrambled to the safety of your kitchen; the space was too small for his chair to fit in. Ivar noticed at once how you fled, and the way your hands unknowingly flew to your backside to rub.

“Someone will be here to pick you up. Noon, on the thirtieth. Have your bags packed and ready by then.”

You let him leave, and you slammed the door behind him. Your whole apartment felt cold, your vision was blurry, and all you could think was, _What have I gotten myself into?_

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Vengeance is Mine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11619012) by [TiyeTiye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TiyeTiye/pseuds/TiyeTiye)




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